


The Food of Love

by thefreshestandthebest



Category: The Infernal Devices Series - Cassandra Clare, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Attempt at Humor, Classical Music, College, F/M, Friendship, Modern Era, Music, Music Store, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2019-07-24 19:16:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16181477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefreshestandthebest/pseuds/thefreshestandthebest
Summary: "If music be the food of love, play on, give me excess of it; that surfeiting, the appetite may sicken, and so die." At Warner Classics, Jem is a music producer and Tessa is a virtuoso pianist. Or, Jem is a precious bean and Tessa is a beautiful badass. Or, all your favorite clichés rolled into one. But is it possible their appetite will sicken and die?





	1. The Angel of Garroway Music

**Author's Note:**

> This will be a multi-chapter labor of love based on my own interest in working in the (classical) music industry someday. I also intend this to be a Jem-centric fic, but I might throw in a Tessa or other character POV somewhere along the way. Comments greatly appreciated!

James Carstairs was a self-professed nerd.

He spent way too much time rifling through sheet music in the sheet music section of the music stores. A “quick trip” could turn into three hours, easy. He even worked at a music store part-time. After nearly every one of his trips, he would come home with his loot, shut himself up in his room, and practice his violin. It felt a lot like he was carrying on a torrid affair.

He tried not to think about it too much, but he had a feeling that this was one of the reasons why girls never looked twice at him. _His nose is stuck too far into his music books_ , they’d think, _to care about anything, let alone anyone, else_. But really, whenever Jem had the good fortune to meet a pretty girl, a piece of music--usually Kreisler or Tchaikovsky--would recall itself to him, and from that point on, it would always remind him of her. It was all terribly romantic. In high school back in the UK, he even told one of his crushes that she made him think of the first movement of Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto in D. She had given him a blank look, and eventually they had stopped talking. From then on, Jem kept his nerd impulses to himself.

A new graduate, Jem was always glad that he majored in music production, rather than violin performance, because he heard from performance majors how practicing four to six hours a day could eventually suck the life out of you. With music production, he could also learn how beautiful music was made--through a combination of coaching the artist and finding the right balance of settings in the studio. That way, nothing could take away his passion for playing and composing.

Now he sat in a corner of Bertrand’s Music, a hole-in-the-wall music store that Jem liked to frequent because foot traffic was low, meaning that he could peruse the stacks undisturbed. Though he shared a flat in Santa Monica with his best friend Will, Jem didn’t mind making the hour-long drive through LA traffic to visit this little store in Pasadena. The staff were always courteous, and they were familiar by now with the young man who often came in just to read music, and many times to purchase it. Jem was starting his first day of his new job next week--at Warner Classics, no less--and though the producer he was shadowing hadn’t specified it, Jem wanted to brush up on his classical music knowledge. He was proud of himself for landing a job so soon out of college, and he was determined not to muck up his first day. His resolve and hard work had to pay off.

Leaving the store with only two new books (of that Jem was very proud), he felt his phone buzz.

The text message was from his co-worker at Garroway Music, Simon Lewis: _Hey dude, I’m really sorry but could you cover my shift this afternoon? Something came up and I can’t make it. Long story short: George lost my keys._

Jem texted back. _Sure. It’ll take about an hour from now, but I’ll be there. Hope George is OK_.

An hour and a half later, Jem was behind the counter at Garroway Music. He smiled as an elderly lady came up to him.

“All set, ma’am?”

“Oh yes,” the lady replied. “These are for my grandson. He goes through books and rosin like a duck through water.”

Any mention of ducks made Jem’s mouth quirk up. “He plays the violin?”

“Yes, and he’s very good. He’s only seven years old. They say he’s a prodigy.”

“That’s amazing.” Jem looked at the rosin and books as he scanned the items. “You’ve chosen only the best for any young violinist, let alone a prodigy.”

The woman chuckled and swatted a playful hand at him. “Oh, stop it, you.”

Jem flashed her another grin as he put the products in a bag. “That’ll be $24.96.”

She took a while to fish out cash from her purse, after which she apologized, but in the end he sent her off smiling.

“Thanks for waiting, I can help the next customer...” Jem trailed off, eyes widening.

The young woman smiled as she walked up to the counter. She had long brown hair in loose curls that swished with her movements and complemented her height. Her face was kind but held a seriousness, a gravitas about it that captivated Jem. _Beautiful_ , he thought, the best and only word he could think of to describe her, partly because he was incapable of forming full coherent thoughts at the moment. Hoping it wasn’t too obvious that he was staring, he looked away hastily and fumbled to scan her books.

“Did you find everything alright?”

“Yes, I did, thank you.”

Jem knew he should shut up, but his pulse had quickened noticeably and he couldn’t stop himself. “Rachmaninoff. He’s gratifying but brutal to play.”

“I know,” she said, and laughed self-deprecatingly. “I’m pretty sure everyone I’ve told that I was learning this piece said I was crazy.”

“Well, you must be very, very... good.”

He felt his cheeks warm as he struggled for the right adjective at the end. “ _Good”?_ he chastised himself silently. _What are you, in primary school?_

But she only giggled. “It’s okay. I can take it. I’m very, very crazy.”

Jem smiled and looked down. He feared he was blushing tremendously. Somehow he finished putting her items in a bag without dropping anything. “That’ll be $36.48, please.”

Her fingers brushed his as she gave him the cash. Jem was pretty sure he froze for a good three seconds before he remembered what to do with the bills and coins.

“Four dollars is your change.” He tried to say it lightly, but it came out a little ragged. Again his fingers brushed hers as he exchanged the money.

“Thank you,” she said. “Have a great rest of your day.” She gave him a smile that he imagined was just for him.

“You too, thanks,” he replied softly. She was already turning away because he waited a beat too long to say it.

For the rest of the day, Jem tried to put the Angel of Garroway Music out of his mind. He busied himself with reorganizing scores that patrons misplaced, checking the stocks, packaging online orders, and even rearranging the displays at the front of the store. He tried to ignore the voice in the back of his head that whispered that she was definitely Debussy’s “Clair de Lune.”

_You’ll probably never see her again_ , he thought. _You’ll never see her again. You’ll never see her again_. He repeated it to himself until he believed it.

Jem came home that evening and found Will napping on their living room couch, a book splayed open on his chest. Jem peered at the title: it was _Lady Audley’s Secret_.

“Will.”

He jumped awake. “What? Is the flat on fire? Has Lady Audley murdered Church?”

As if in response, the cat jumped up onto the coffee table, looking very displeased at the mere suggestion.

“How long have you been napping?” Jem asked, amused.

“Not nearly as long as you’ve been out,” Will replied. “I thought you didn’t have work today. Did you accidentally spend 6 hours in a music store again?”

“That has still only happened once,” said Jem, mock-affronted. “I covered Simon’s shift today.”

“We have nothing to eat,” Will said by way of reply.

They ended up ordering pizza. Will told Jem about his tedious summer reading assignment--Victorian literature--after Jem recounted his day, leaving out the Angel of Garroway Music, of course.

“Cecily called,” Will said suddenly.

“Oh,” Jem said, “How is she doing?”

“She met some bloke called Gideon, or Gabriel, I can’t remember. Something like that. They’ve been stepping out together.” He frowned but didn’t elaborate.

“You’re worried.” Jem knew; it wasn’t a question.

“She’s a big girl,” Will said unhappily. “She can handle herself. I just wish I was there for her. There’s no one to look after her now.”

“How long have they been seeing each other?”

“About a week, she said. She seems very happy. You could tell she was in a good mood because she was teasing me in Welsh. ‘Have you met anyone, Will? Where’s _your_ girlfriend, Will?’” He rolled his eyes and Jem laughed at his imitation of Cecily. “I thought I had escaped this line of conversation a long time ago, what with--well, the parents being dead and all.”

Jem understood. Will’s parents and older sister had died when he was 12, and Jem’s parents died when he was 18, only 4 years ago. It still wasn’t easy to know that they weren’t there anymore--to compose a piece he was proud of and be eager to share it with his father before realizing that he wasn’t there to share it with anymore. Jem knew that it wasn’t any easier for Will, for all that he tried to make light of it.

In the beginning, when they met at an exchange student mixer at UCLA, Will was an obstinate but magnetic fellow. Jem didn’t think, with their personalities, that they would end up such close friends, but then again, Will was always surprising him.

At another social, quite early in their friendship, Will snapped at a group of other friends they had made in their exchange program. After that, the group tried to disperse inconspicuously, but in the end Will was left alone. Except, that is, for Jem.

Will claimed that someone had been asking him inappropriately invasive questions, but said nothing more on the subject. Eventually Jem realized that family was a touchy subject for Will. It was for Jem, too, but he sensed that his own pure grief was less complicated than whatever feelings Will had regarding his own family.

So Jem never asked. And Will, for whatever reason, gravitated toward him. Eventually Jem learned about how Will had put off going to university for two years in order to look after Cecily until she turned 18 and started university herself, and Will learned that Jem’s parents were first responders who died in the line of duty, and that Jem almost decided not to pursue higher education altogether.

Now they were inseparable.

“--about you, James?” Will was saying now. “Any ladies swan into your life lately?”

Once Jem’s brain caught up with what Will asked, he couldn’t stop the images of the Angel of Garroway Music from flooding his mind’s eye. Her smiles especially. He kicked himself mentally. _You’ll never see her again, you idiot._

“No,” Jem said. “I’m practically off the market. You’re the one with two more years in school to meet someone special, with similar interests and goals.”

“How boring.” Will yawned. “I shall marry Agatha and grow happy and old and fat.”

Jem smirked. Agatha was the cook at the local Armenian restaurant near their flat, and three times his age.

“Well, I’m off to bed,” Will said, patting his nonexistent belly. “Nothing like an entire pizza to ensure a good night’s sleep.”

Jem lay in bed that night, trying to appreciate everything he had in life thus far. Music. A settled life in LA, free from the grief and suffering he had come to associate with London, the city where he grew up. An unconditionally loyal best friend. A great new full-time job to look forward to. Even if it meant quitting his job at Garroway Music and relinquishing any chance of ever seeing a certain someone again...

He shook his head at his folly. Los Angeles is a city of dreamers, and he had let it get to his head. Dreams are dangerous things. There were no fairy-tale endings. There was only life and its cosmic jokes, as unpredictable as the wildfires in California. Jem always tried to laugh whenever the universe played one of its cruel jokes on him or someone he loved. So far, it worked; there were always more reasons to smile than to cry. He could only hope that the future would be more of the same.


	2. Assistant Producer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: This chapter touches lightly on homophobia in the music industry.

For the third time that day, Jem felt blessed.

The first time was when he walked through the doors of Warner Music Group. The main lobby was completely renovated since the last time Jem came here for a college internship. Now it was sleek, with an edgy modern finish to the curving wood panels and marble floors. Massive TVs projected promotional video content by artists across Warner’s many labels. When he caught a glimpse of violinist Yehudi Menuhin on the screen, Jem almost forgot what he was doing there.

The second time was when he walked through the doors of the studio his producer-manager assigned to him, #B21. He remembered how mighty a fully-equipped, professional studio was from his days as an intern, but he was never allowed to tinker very much. The prospect made him weak in the knees.

Jem went almost immediately to the controls, studying the levers and buttons, designed to intimidate with its military precision. He was giddy--there was no doubt. He forced himself to calm down. He would be mature. He would exude experience, even what little he had. He was a twenty-two-year-old man, not a boy in a toy store.

The third time was when he met the producer that he would be working with for the next few months.

Magnus Bane’s reputation preceded him. Once a prodigy pianist and conductor, Magnus traveled the globe playing with the most illustrious musicians, to the largest audiences in classical music history. At the age of thirty, he made a career change. He made a name for himself as a leading industry producer of classical and popular music. Now, at the age of thirty-five, Magnus Bane was known throughout the industry as a musical wizard, though he preferred “warlock.”

Magnus came into the studio in a flurry of swishing robes and glitter. “James Carstairs, eh?” He held out a hand.

“Yes, call me Jem,” he said, shaking it.

“I’m Magnus,” the other man replied simply. “We are going to have a lot of fun together. Remind me of your background in producing?”

“I majored in music production at UCLA, where I took multiple lectures and seminars on production in most of the popular genres. I also completed two production internships, one here and one at Universal, in my junior and senior years.”

“Great. Usually I don’t take on assistant producers because sometimes I can be a bit of a control freak and don’t want to inflict that on anyone unnecessarily, but I see the pedagogical value of it. I have no doubt that we’ll both learn something in our partnership.”

Magnus proceeded to inform Jem of the artists on their roster for the next few months. Jem tried not to gawk; many of them he had seen perform live and followed closely, while others were brilliant new artists that he had never heard of.

And so it was that on Jem’s first day as an assistant producer at Warner Classics, he got to meet and work with The Circle, a renowned wind quintet, on their third studio album.

From his internships, Jem knew that artists could fill the room with their personalities. And he knew that The Circle’s celebrity was in large part due to the charisma of their leader, Valentine Morgenstern.

“Magnus Bane.” Valentine’s voice commanded the room as the other members filed in after him. “We are overjoyed to finally meet you.”

“And you,” Magnus replied, shaking the other man’s hand. “This is my assistant, Jem Carstairs.”

Valentine eyes raked him cursorily. “You look a bit young to be Magnus’s... assistant,” he said, smirking. “Though I suppose we all have our preferences.”

An awkward pause. Jem glanced at Magnus, but his face was impassive. Valentine continued, “Charmed to meet you. Let us get settled, and we will go over our vision for the album again.”

Jem met the other members of The Circle: oboist Jocelyn Fairchild, clarinetist Maryse Lightwood, her husband and horn player Robert Lightwood, and bassoonist Céline Montclaire, who Jem noticed was the quietest of the group. Valentine played the flute and piccolo.

“So, album number three,” said Magnus. “I distinctly remember one of you mentioning that you wanted to make wind music sexy again.”

“We think it’s always been sexy, but yes, that is still true,” Maryse replied. “We’ve been rehearsing some great new pieces. Here’s the list and scores.”

Magnus took the stack and perused it, whistling. “Hindemith, too, huh? Carstairs, have a look at these.”

Their proposed track list was indeed impressive. It was a very eclectic blend of tried-and-true classical repertoire and modern, avant-garde pieces. There were even ones that highlighted the solo talent of the individual musicians.

“These two pieces,” Magnus said, looking over Jem’s shoulder, “from _Metamorphosis_ by Ananda Sukarlan _._ My old piano teacher, by the way. One of them is for piano and oboe, and the other for piano and French horn. Aren’t these more suited to, like, solo albums? For example, if Jocelyn and Robert were to start their own projects?”

“No,” Valentine said with finality. “There won’t be any offshoot projects from The Circle.”

Jocelyn and Robert nodded their assent, though they said nothing.

“The purpose of this album is to showcase our talents individually and collectively,” Valentine continued. “We’ve established ourselves well enough in the industry that we can take some liberties with track listing. Besides,” Valentine cut his gaze toward Maryse, “isn’t it sexier this way?”

Magnus looked each quintet member in the eye. “Alright, clearly you’ve all thought this through. In that case, this is a very ambitious project. Admittedly, I expected nothing less from The Inimitable Circle.” He grinned. “Let’s start recording.”

The Circle were unparalleled musicians. Usually the first day of a recording session was hectic, but Valentine, Jocelyn, Maryse, Robert, and Céline were seasoned studio musicians as well as live performers. Magnus admitted to Jem that such musicians were rare, but that it usually meant that they were less open to coaching from producers.

Which also happened to be the case. Maryse claimed that they wanted to make wind music sexy again, and Magnus was willing to indulge that vision, but it seemed like some of them weren’t. Though their technique was impeccable, Jem noted that their recording of Samuel Barber’s _Summer Music_ lacked the spirit evoked by the word “sexy.” Even after multiple notes from Magnus, The Circle only achieved a minor burn instead of a sultry scorch.

After the quintet left at the end of the day, Magnus ranted. It was a cool rant--Magnus never seemed to raise his voice--but a veritable diatribe nonetheless.

“‘Make wind music sexy again,’” he was saying. “Normally, I would be all for it, being no stranger to transforming the driest music into the wettest... well, you know. True, it’s something they’ve never done before, but that’s what growth _is_. Would it hurt to have an open mind? Divas, all of them. Actually, no. Just Valentine. The homophobia doesn’t surprise me; it’s his ambition that’s concerning.”

“Doesn’t that... dissuade you from working with someone?” Jem asked. “It seems counterintuitive if they don’t respect you.”

Magnus shrugged. “Valentine is harmless. I don’t need him to respect me personally. Just professionally. So far, it looks like they do; the piece just needs some work, which is what we’re here for. And there’s nothing I haven’t heard before from people in this industry for the past twenty years.” Jem still looked worried. “Don’t worry, Carstairs. Besides, we all signed a contract.”

Jem nodded.

“I thought the “sexy” thing was more Maryse’s idea, not Valentine’s.”

“Oh no, rest assured, it’s all Valentine’s idea. Theirs is no democracy. But I suppose that’s what makes them so brilliant.”

Magnus and Jem continued to work with The Circle every few days for a month, knocking down track after track. Recording (and coaching) was magic on some days but frustrating on just as many occasions.

Jem relished it. Even the temper flares. He was a strong believer in the emotion behind the music, that any emotion--anger, fear, love--made the music come alive. Then it was only a matter of honing it--refining the technique, correcting wrong notes, adjusting the tempo of delivery.

And Magnus, of course, was a masterclass all to himself. In addition to being a producer, he was also an expert arranger and sound engineer. He still never raised his voice; Jem learned early on that he said things with the quiet authority of someone who knew exactly what they were doing. Although Jem didn’t always agree with his creative decisions, in the end Magnus always managed to achieve greatness.

The Angel of Garroway Music became a distant fantasy as Jem immersed himself in his new reality. His first two months at the label was a whirlwind of constant learning and application. He spent most of his free time with Will, who had the rest of the summer before he started his third year at UCLA in September. Will, equal parts boasting and bemoaning, claimed that his best friend and roommate was becoming a “proper career man.”

So Jem worked, soaking in the music and all the technicalities of recording and producing it. Once, Magnus joined cello virtuoso Malcolm Fade in the booth to accompany him on the piano. This left Jem alone at the controls.

“You’ll let him know if he’s rubbish, yeah?” Malcolm teased. He and Magnus went to the same music conservatory in London. They’d bonded over a shared taste in music, of course, but also in fashion.

Jem thought that was unlikely. He’d heard Magnus play in the studio. Sometimes Jem wondered if the names had any truth to them, if Magnus really did magic, if he really was a wizard. Or warlock, or whatever.

Magnus laughed. “Cork it, Fade. My assistant is unfailingly loyal to me. It’s you he needs to watch out for.” He winked at Jem.

It was the most fun he’d had in the studio yet. They recorded Beethoven’s _Cello Sonata No. 3_ , a dramatically beautiful piece that progressed through a variety of emotions, and Malcolm joked between takes, mostly about Beethoven’s alleged romantic flings. After one session Malcolm tried to commiserate with Jem as a fellow Londoner that saw LA only as a place of debauched glory.

“Annabel and I are hopping on the first plane back, quick as we can. The pain and suffering here are great for artists, but we’ve more than enough of that in London, haven’t we, Carstairs? At least back home it isn’t all covered up and painted over with fake smiles and avocados.”

Jem’s mouth quirked up. He didn’t say that yes, London was more honest about its pain and suffering, but that he had no desire to return to it.

“Though I suppose what they say about Los Angeles is true,” Malcolm was saying, putting away his cello in its case. “You either come here because you’re running _from_ something, or because you’re running _to_ something.”

“Or that you have no other choice,” Magnus remarked.

“Quite right,” Malcolm said, turning to Jem. “How about it, mate? What’s your reason for coming to LA?”

“I...” He was slightly taken aback by the conversation’s change in tone. He was going to answer that he was running _to_ something--college, sunshine, his dream job, of course he was--but all of a sudden he wasn’t so sure. Finally he just said, “It’s going to sound horribly cliché, but I came here because I needed a fresh start.”

“And did you get it?”

“For the most part, yeah.”

“Hm.” Malcolm sounded unconvinced. “I, for one, come to LA for one reason only. To bring true love back from the dead. Music is the only way I can do that.”

Malcolm departed. Magnus closed the door behind him, turning back to Jem with an unreadable expression on his face. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it, and tried again.

“Malcolm is a bit of an oddball,” he said finally. “We musicians are usually very familiar with each other, it’s true, but sometimes he takes that too much to heart. Don’t get me wrong, he’s one of my best friends. But as your mentor, I feel I should say that you don’t owe anyone the whole truth about yourself.” His eyes glittered with unknown wisdom. Then he sighed. “Yours is a tender heart, Jem. Protect it. Protect your past, if you must. There are people--I’m not saying Malcolm is one of them, I don’t think he is--but there are people in this industry who wouldn’t hesitate to use your weaknesses against you, if it meant that they got what they wanted. Best not to give them the chance.”

Jem wasn’t sure what else might have motivated Magnus to make this speech, but he nodded. “Thank you for telling me. I didn’t mind Malcolm’s line of conversation.”

Magnus just raised his brows. “I hope you also don’t mind taking the reigns on mastering these recordings.”

Of course he didn’t. It was a nerd’s dream, aside from spending hours in music stores. But...

“You think I’m ready for that much responsibility?”

“You were ready long before you miked my piano with the Neumann M149 without being asked. I trust you.”

For what felt like the millionth time, Jem counted his blessings that he was surrounded by such incredible people in this life. He smiled as he reached for his headphones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I had fun playing with some of the classical musician stereotypes that I learned about as a music undergrad.
> 
> I’m not aiming for accuracy here; I have no idea if this is how music production actually happens--it’s just how I imagine it. Let me know what you think in the comments, even if you think it’s atrocious!


	3. Her

This late in the summer, the sun didn’t rise over Santa Monica until almost 7 in the morning. But the beach was still deserted, and that was just how Jem liked it.

He was often the only one at this hour, taking turns jogging and sprinting the length of the sand. Running on the shifting surface made his legs work harder and his heart beat stronger than they would if he just ran on the pavement. And the sunrises that greeted him on Santa Monica beach every morning were some of the most exquisite he’d ever seen in his life. The brief period between darkness and light made him feel like he was somewhere else entirely, in a fantasy world of colors not quite orange or blue or purple.

Here, the ocean smelled saltier, the sand felt softer, and the sun always rose in full glory, unencumbered by the haze of clouds. It was everything that a person could hope for in a beach, and yet it made Jem nostalgic. His family used to go to Brighton Pier on holiday in England. Brighton beach was no comparison; the sun was almost never out, and it was invariably chilly (his father always called English weather a “wet blanket”). But Jem remembered that his parents would always buy ice cream to brighten their dreary picnics there.

Even the sunniest days in Santa Monica couldn’t warm him the same way that his parents could on rainy spring days in Brighton.

This morning he slowed his run when an adorable black and white collie trotted his way, her owner calling her name. Jem bent to greet the dog, stroking where the animal rubbed against his hand and leg to be petted.

“Sorry, she can be overly friendly,” her owner said. He looked to be in his mid-forties.

Jem smiled. “It’s no problem. I love animals. I’ve a cat at home.”

“Yup, she likes those too.” He looked at his dog with fondness. “Here, Sushi.”

Sushi licked Jem’s hand before walking over to her human. It was only now that Jem saw the shaved fur over her hind leg and her slight limp.

“She have an operation recently?”

“Yeah, she had a growth in her leg that was cancerous.” The man looked down sadly at Sushi and gave her a scratch behind the ears. “Luckily, we caught it pretty early so it didn’t have a chance to spread, and they saved her.”

Jem felt a rush of affection for Sushi. “That’s wonderful.”

“I know. I thank God everyday that I still have my Sushi. I wish I could be more like her.”

“We don’t deserve our animals.”

“You got that right. Anyway, we’d best be going, let you get back to your workout. C’mon Sushi, say bye.”

The dog woofed softly and followed her human. Jem smiled and went off in the opposite direction.

When he got home, he showered as Will made him breakfast, before the latter rushed out the door to get to a group project meeting. Jem ate, thinking about how his best friend made a mean full English, when his phone buzzed. It was his friend and former boss, Luke Garroway.

_Hey Jem, I hate to ask you to reprise your old role here, but Simon’s out of town today traveling to a gig in Santa Barbara. Could you lend us a few hours? I’ll pay you extra._

Jem had planned to compose today; he had been working on a short violin piece with piano accompaniment for the past few weeks, and today he felt like he might be in the right mindset to be productive. (Sushi would be his muse, as Church was the antithesis of productivity.) Being an assistant producer was demanding enough to occupy his weekdays, and though it was the most rewarding job he’d ever had in his life, he missed the warmth and familiarity of Luke’s store.

Jem texted back: _No problem, I’m free all day today. Just tell me when. And no need to pay me extra._

His laptop booted up as Luke texted back: _Thank you!!! You’re the MVP, Jem. Does 2 to around 5 work?_

Jem texted back a _Yes_ as he scrolled through his emails. Magnus wanted him to practice arranging, so he’d sent over the score for the third movement of Tchaikovsky’s _Symphony No. 6_ for Jem to arrange for string quartet. Arranging wasn’t Jem’s favorite thing to do, but he knew that it was an important skill for any good producer to have. Besides, Magnus was as good an inspiration as any.

One time, he and Jem worked on a duet with a pair of young vocalists, tenor Raphael Santiago and soprano Lily Chen. To Jem, it was painfully clear that Lily fancied Raphael, who did not reciprocate her sentiments whatsoever. Although Raphael did not deter her from asking prying questions and trying to elicit emotional responses from him, he certainly did not encourage her attentions.

So, without ceasing to pester Raphael, Lily turned her focus to Jem, who sometimes found her eyeing him appreciatively.

“Hey, Mr. You-Can-Ride-In-My-Carstairs,” she said with a grin, “How did that sound?”

“Um...” It took a moment for him to realize that she meant the take they just completed. “Quite all right. I can’t help but think, though, that there’s something amiss with the arrangement... Magnus?”

“Yes, and what might that problem be?”

Jem had looked blankly between his manager and the scores.

“Uh-oh,” Lily said. “Someone’s in trouble. Shall I be the arbitrator of punishment?” She waggled her eyebrows. In the corner of his vision, Jem saw Raphael put his fingers to his temples.

Jem gave a nervous laugh, but not at Lily’s suggestion, which was a welcome bit of levity amidst his crippling inability to identify the problem in the score. Magnus had taken pity on him, but since then he vowed to whip Jem’s arrangement skills into shape.

After a fairly productive morning (he figured out the violin solo for his sonata and started the symphony transcription), Jem walked into Garroway Music, hearing the familiar chime above the door.

“There he is!” Luke grinned at him from behind the counter, and Jem answered with a grin of his own.

“Thanks so much for doing this, man,” Luke continued, “Saturdays are usually our busiest days and there was no way Simon was gonna miss a sold-out show, so...”

“No need to explain. I’m happy for Simon. And I’ve missed it here.”

“No way. The new job that bad?”

Jem laughed, joining Luke behind the counter. “No, I love my new job. But I miss being around music books and talking about music with you.”

“Aw, dude...” Luke clapped him on the back. “I missed you, too. Hey, Eric!” He gestured to another employee, a buddy of Simon’s. “Take over at the counter, will you?” As the other man came over, Jem followed Luke to the back storeroom.

“I need your help sorting our new collection of classical music scores. I’m not as familiar with the stuff as you, and we’ve had a lot of stuff come in that I need help categorizing. After that, could you help out at the front? I know”--Luke held his hands up--“not as glamorous as music production, but...”

“Not a problem. I haven’t been spending as much time around new sheet music as I would like, so this is a welcome task. Thanks, Luke.”

Luke shook his head incredulously, his brown eyes pensive. “Only you, Jem, would thank a guy for giving you more work. You know, we’ve had a few customers come in over the past month asking some very specific questions about classical repertoire, and I haven’t been able to adequately answer them. One time an elderly lady asked me, ‘What happened to the handsome, charming young man that used to work here?’” Luke chuckled. “I don’t know how you helped her, but since you’ve been gone, we’ve been struggling in more ways than one.”

Jem flushed lightly. “I haven’t helped anyone in any special way. Why don’t you hire someone new who knows classical music?”

“I have, but they don’t know it as well as you do. And the really knowledgeable people, like the music majors and full-time musicians, tend to give their own private lessons rather than work for basically minimum wage at a music store.”

“I see.”

“We’ve missed you, Jem,” Luke said ruefully, “but we’re really happy for you and your new job. It’s just--you’re welcome back here anytime you like.”

* * *

Magnus had told Jem to bring his violin to work that morning, because Magnus was going to let him coach someone. Jem got there early, playing through some of the music lying around the studio to warm up. He still practiced diligently every night before bed, so he wasn’t horribly out of practice. But it had been a while since he’d been the teacher, and never had he taught anyone over the age of fourteen.

He was still practicing Telemann’s _Fantasia No.7 in Eb Major_ when he heard the door open.

“Beautiful stuff,” he heard Magnus say. Jem stopped, putting the bow down. “Jem, there’s been a schedule change last minute and I didn’t have time to notify you.”

“That’s alright,” replied Jem, turning around. He was about to ask about what the change was, but suddenly the words lodged in his throat.

Standing next to Magnus was the beautiful woman he’d seen at Luke’s music store.

The Angel of Garroway Music.

She was staring right back. All of a sudden he was lost in those gray eyes, and memories assailed him: the way she looked as she walked up to the counter, like an angel with sunlight illuminating her wavy brown hair, the way her full lips tipped up into a smile, their fingers brushing one another’s...

If he was in any way successful at hiding the fact that he was staring when he first saw her, he was definitely not successful now.

“--Jem, this is Tessa Gray...”

Magnus was speaking, but his voice sounded so very far away. All of Jem’s senses were attuned to her. Why was she looking at him like that? Did she remember him? No, she couldn’t, could she?

Magnus cleared his throat, loudly. Jem blinked, and the spell was over. He was suddenly aware that his mouth was open because he had to close it. She glanced away, at Magnus, who looked between the two of them with raised brows.

“You guys... know each other?”

Panicked, Jem couldn’t stop the words from coming out. “No, I mean, yes. We’ve met, but not, I mean--” At Magnus’s blank look, he closed his mouth and started again. “I used to work at a music store in Santa Monica. I remember you from there,” he said, looking at Tessa.

She held out a hand and smiled, a twinkle in her eye. “Hello, Jem,” she said, “It’s good to finally meet you.”

“Tessa.” So that was her name. Jem listened with a musician’s ear to the way her name sounded when he said it. _Tessa._ It was like a gentle whisper in the dark, like a paean to the woman it named. His nerves tingled when he took her hand. “Likewise,” he said, unable to take his eyes off her.

Magnus took a deep breath. “Well, as I was saying, there’s been a change of schedule. We were supposed to work with Tessa next week, but the execs moved around the artist schedules a bit so we’ll be starting with her this week instead.” He turned to Tessa. “You have your proposed track list and scores...?”

“Yes, right here.” She handed over her stack to Magnus, who gestured to both of them to sit. “I was thinking that today we could start recording the Rachmaninoff,” she said, shooting a glance at Jem, who blushed. So she did remember him.

“Hmm,” Magnus said, flipping. “Beethoven, Brahms, Liszt. Very archetypal ‘masculine’ music.”

“It’s the music I love both playing and listening to the most.”

“Oh good. I’m not contesting it. I actually quite like it. Is this the intended theme of the album?

Tessa shrugged. “Not at first, I kind of noticed it after putting the program together. I played most of these pieces at competitions and festivals, so it feels right to record them for my debut album. But I like that it all seems to have come together around this theme, too. As if saying that yes, female pianists relish playing Brahms as much as men do. Why wouldn’t they?”

Jem nodded, finding his voice. “That’s brilliant. I’ve heard that stereotype in college too many times. I still can’t believe that people believe it in the twenty-first century, but then again, classical music is notoriously slow-moving.”

“Jem is right,” Magnus said, indicating to the papers in his hands. “This track list looks good to me. Any reason why you wanna start with Rachmaninoff today?”

“It’s my favorite,” Tessa said with a smile.

Later Magnus sent Tessa and Jem into the booth, the former to warm up and the latter to mic up the piano.

The booth was quiet, the soundproofing walls rendering the sound of his heartbeat audible to his own ears. He felt hyperaware, now that he was alone in a room with her--with Magnus looking on, of course--but this was Tessa Gray, renowned piano virtuoso, beautiful and mysterious, whom he had convinced himself he would never see again. And yet here she was. It seemed almost too good to be true; it seemed like another one of the universe’s cosmic jokes. His hands trembled ever so slightly, as if he’d just downed a double shot of espresso. He pinched himself discreetly and, assured that he had not stumbled into one of his feverish dreams, gathered the proper mics and cables from a corner.

“Now I feel foolish,” he said, giving her a lopsided grin.

“Why?”

“If I had known who you were, I would never have presumed to know more than an internationally renowned virtuoso pianist about _Rachmaninoff_.”

She laughed. “You didn’t presume. You were merely stating the facts.”

“All of which you would know, too.”

She took a seat at the bench, playing a quick chord progression to assess the piano’s weight and attack. “Nobody knows everything,” she said. “I didn’t know that _you_ were going to be my assistant producer.”

Jem blushed. He was doing that a lot today. “I recognized you right away, but I didn’t expect you to remember me.”

She tilted her head to the side. Jem was momentarily distracted by the curve of her neck. “Why not?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I was just a cashier, in a store. Sometimes people don’t even look us in the face. Which I have no problem with.”

“Well,” she said. “It’s easier to remember cashiers who try to have a conversation with customers.”

“Yet the topic I chose was Rachmaninoff. With a professional pianist.”

She laughed again. “Don’t worry, I won’t hold it against you.”

She played a few more chord progressions before saying, “By the way, Luke misses you.”

Jem looked at her in surprise. “How do you know that?”

“I went back there looking for a couple scores, and he helped me out. He didn’t have them, but he gushed about how his classical music guy left the store got a new job as a music producer.” She grinned. “I just put two and two together.”

Jem chuckled, adjusting a mic stand. “This is probably the most elaborate coincidence I’ve ever experienced in my life.”

Tessa was silent for a moment, then began playing a series of quick scales. “So you play the violin?”

“I play and compose, but I prefer producing.” He indicated to her at the piano. “I couldn’t do what you do.”

“Nonsense. You probably could, though it isn’t for everyone.” She paused, then asked, “Do you mainly work with classical music artists here?”

“Yes,” he said, bending to pick up a cable. “In a past internship, I worked with pop artists, but I prefer the classical world.”

“What was it like to work with pop musicians?”

He smiled, trying to remember the last time he’d met someone so genuinely curious. “Very educational. Contrary to popular belief, they’re not any more dramatic or bombastic in the studio than classical artists are. The coaching part of production is easier with pop music, but the possibilities for the final product--” He shook his head. “They’re endless. Popular music is fascinating, but so much open-endedness would drive me insane. I like working with classical because more of the finished product stems from what the artists themselves perform, and what we do at the controls and the computer is more... supplementary.” He shut his mouth before rambling any further.

She didn’t seem to mind, bless her. “That’s so interesting. I love listening to pop music, so I’ve always wanted to be in the studio to witness pop artists doing their thing.”

“Now that you’re here, you might get to someday.”

She smiled at him and began to practice contrary motion, her hands starting at opposite ends of the keyboard and converging towards the middle.

After tightening the height adjuster for the second mic stand, Jem straightened and cleared his throat.

“Sorry,” he said. “There’s one last mic to set up and then I’ll be out of your way. It’s just, over there.” He gestured past her.

“Oh,” she said, starting to get up.

“No need to move, I’m just going to step in back of you, like so,” he said, slipping behind herand bending to retrieve the mic. He had no idea why it was back here. At any rate, this close to her, he caught the scent of her lavender shampoo. Suddenly he was self-conscious: did he remember to use cologne this morning? was there a hole in his shirt?

“Thank you,” she told him after he finished.

His hair had fallen into his eyes as he worked. Now he ran his fingers through them absently, casting his gaze over the mics to check his work. Finally he smiled at her. “No problem.”

Magnus gave him an unreadable look when he rejoined him at the controls. Jem wanted to ask what he meant by it, but Magnus was already turning to Tessa through the window. He pushed the intercom button.

“Ready, Tessa?”

“I am.”


	4. Miracles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's so lovely to read the comments that this story has been getting so far; thanks again! More comments always welcome ;)

A few weeks earlier, Tessa Gray visited Garroway Music again.

If she wasn’t reading a book, she was probably practicing the piano from one. When she was little, every day after school she would be in her aunt’s bookstore until closing time, procrastinating on her homework in favor of teaching herself the piano or reading a new story, behavior that earned her stern reproach from Aunt Harriet. Still, the bookstore was her sanctuary for most of her life, until Harriet was forced to close it down five years ago, citing the usual suspects: ebooks and online book shopping. But after it closed and the piano in it had moved into their small apartment, Tessa begged her aunt to find her a teacher. She promised her aunt that she would practice and not waste her money. She made good on her promises, too. Soon Tessa became proficient enough for her teacher to sign her up for competitions, many of which she won. Now she was a signed artist with Warner Classics and her family’s main breadwinner.

It would have been Nate--he was five years older than she was--but he had his own way of doing things.

“Tessie, you can play that backwards and forwards with your eyes closed.”

In her memory, Nate reclined on the couch that was reserved for bookstore customers. It was just after-hours, the time that Tessa usually practiced.

She narrowed her eyes at him with all the defiance of a nine-year-old. “It isn’t perfect yet.”

“There’s no such thing as perfect. Take it from someone who knows.” He got up and walked over to her; he was in the midst of puberty, all gangly limbs and acne. Still, Aunt Harriet assured Tessa proudly that he would grow gracefully into his features. “What you need are _real_ books,” he said confidently.

“What do you mean, _real_ books? These _are_ real books, Aunt Harriet bought them for me.”

“You misunderstand,” he said with the air of a long-suffering older brother. “I mean _real_ books. Ones for grown-ups. These are all for kids.”

It was true; all the scores she had were pedagogical, and Tessa had whizzed through Levels 1 through 8 with abandon. She had only two levels left, but at the rate she was going, she would finish those, too, by the time she turned ten.

So the next day, when Tessa raced to the piano as usual, there were two new books on the piano desk: a volume of Chopin nocturnes and the first book of Beethoven’s piano sonatas. Their dark blue covers told her that they were Henle Urtexts, the very best editions of piano scores that anyone could hope to play from.

She knew Nate loved classical music as much as she did--late night conversations about their favorite composers and pieces were proof enough--so it wasn’t impossible that he would know exactly what music she wanted to learn next. But now that she was old enough to buy her own scores, she knew that they weren’t cheap. She didn’t question it at the time, but now that she was old enough, she could guess how her fourteen-year-old brother had found the money.

Currently, he was back in prison for being, as Aunt Harriet said, “in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Again Tessa had to hope that things would change the next time he came home, which was in 6 months. She thought with some bitterness that he could have been here with her right now, walking along the shelves and pointing out his favorite Schumann pieces like old times, but he wasn’t.

Her first recording session was in only a couple weeks, and she noticed that most of the tracks on her album fell between five to fifteen minutes each. She had a few shorter pieces in mind, and she hoped that Garroway Music carried the scores. The last time she was here, they were very well stocked.

“Looking for anything in particular?”

Tessa looked up at the store employee; his name tag called him “Eric.” He looked expectantly at Tessa, who gave him a small smile.

“Actually, yes. I wasn’t able to find the titles here, but could you help me look in your storeroom, perhaps?” Tessa rattled off the names of the pieces.

“Sorry, never heard of them. I can check in the back, though.”

“Thanks.”

Tessa turned back to the shelves, absently tracing her finger along the spines. She took a deep breath and allowed the woody smell of paper to comfort her, letting her mind wander to the last time she was here...

_It was supposed to be like any other bookstore run. She had a list of scores she needed, and she’d found them all. Rachmaninoff, Brahms, Beethoven, Liszt. Scores were organized by instrument, then composer, unlike the organization systems she’d seen in other places, which often classified by composition type. This often meant more time hunting down different titles by the same composer. Never had a music store made it_ this _easy to find what she wanted. She was definitely coming back._

_Books in hand, she queued at the cash register and stared. The cashier was_ gorgeous _. He had a smile that lit up his elegantly cheekboned face, and his close-cut black locks were slightly untidy, as if he ran his hands through them. Said hands were long-fingered and deft as they handled the books and punched in numbers at the register; Tessa guessed that he was a pianist. He was tall and slender, but she could see how his shoulders moved under his plain white T-shirt, adorned only by a cute green breast pocket. It matched the green pendant at his throat. He wasn’t wearing a name tag._

_Tessa tore her gaze away quickly, casually. Normally she could keep her wits about her around guys she found good-looking, especially because they often turned out to be rotten apples inside. But there was something different about him. She looked up when he said something that made the elderly lady in front of her laugh and swat her hand at him good-naturedly. He glanced at the woman with a mixture of surprise and fondness, as if he wasn’t expecting to make her laugh._

_“Thanks for waiting, I can help the next customer.”_

_Tessa’s breath caught in her throat as they made eye contact. Suddenly she was self-conscious--her hair must be horribly frizzy from the humidity outside, and was her jacket collar straight?--but she flashed what she hoped was a casual smile as she walked up to the counter._

_Scanning her items, he asked politely, “Did you find everything alright?” He had a slight British accent._

_She tried to make her voice even. “Yes, I did, thank you.”_

_“Rachmaninoff.” A smile tugged at the edge of his lips. “He’s gratifying but brutal to play.” Perhaps she was right about him being a pianist after all._

_“I know.” She laughed. “I’m pretty sure everyone I’ve told that I was learning this piece said I was crazy.”_

_“Well, you must be very, very... good.”_

_A giggle escaped her lips. She said, “It’s okay. I can take it. I’m very, very crazy,” and bit her lip._ Yup, now he will definitely think you’re crazy _._

_He ducked his head to hide a smile (he really had a beautiful smile, she thought) but, tall as he was, he couldn’t hide anything, including the slight flush on his cheeks._

Oh God, _Tessa realized._ Am I flirting?

_Handing him the cash, she was hyperaware of the warmth of his fingers as they brushed hers. She blushed and kept her eyes firmly on the counter, determined that there would be no more acting like a teenaged girl._

_She failed in only a few seconds. Their fingers brushed again as he handed back her change._

_“Thank you,” she said to him. “Have a great rest of your day.” Finally, she said a normal thing. She even smiled that same casual smile at him. (At least she hoped that that, too, wasn’t flirtatious.) When he didn’t say anything right away, she turned, wanting to put the whole episode behind her. She heard him reply softly--probably still recovering from her appalling display of flirtation--as she walked quickly out of the store._

“Excuse me?”

For a brief, dizzying moment she thought it was him again. She snapped her attention back to the present: a man in his late thirties stood before her.

“Yes?”

“Sorry, one of my employees forgot the titles of the scores you were looking for. Could you tell me again what they were?”

Tessa repeated the names.

The man frowned, shaking his head. “Yeah, I just checked the titles that we carry, and I don’t recall seeing them. I can double check for you in the back, though.” He gave her an apologetic smile. “Usually my classical music guy would know right away, but he doesn’t work here anymore. He’s a producer now, isn’t that amazing? Anyway, since then, I’ve had to double-check things way too often.” He sighed. “My name’s Luke, by the way; I’m the owner of this place, so you have every right to hold me responsible. I’ll be right back.”

Tessa assured him that she didn’t mind but hid her disappointment. Perhaps the beautiful man she encountered here last time was Luke’s classical music score expert turned producer, because he was nowhere to be found today. And they didn’t have the scores.

But as the bell above the door jingled as she left, she thought not about good-looking strangers or missing scores, but about Nate, who loved visiting music shops as much as she did. Nate, who wasn’t the greatest role model, but who was one of her staunchest supporters when she first decided to pursue a music career. Nate, who only by some miracle could someday get his act together. Still, she wanted nothing more than for him to be by her side at the start of her career, not behind bars in some penitentiary miles outside the county.

* * *

Someone called “Nate” was blowing up Tessa’s phone.

She had left it outside the booth so she wouldn’t be distracted, but now Jem was peering over at it. He sighed. He shouldn’t have been surprised. Tessa was beautiful and hard-working and smart and kind and confident. He hoped “Nate” knew how lucky he was.

Tessa had been recording her album at the studio for weeks now, long enough for Jem to know for certain: he had an embarrassingly huge crush on her. _Not good_ , he told himself the third time he caught himself staring at her. He’d scratched the back of his ear and hoped she hadn’t noticed because that would’ve been awkward and because she was _way_ out of his league. Enough. He had to focus on producing her music.

Now though--he glanced again at her buzzing phone--that was proving difficult. Magnus shot him a look; Jem pressed the intercom button.

“Um, Tessa?”

“Yes?”

“Your phone’s been ringing, I don’t know if you want to take it--it might be an emergency...”

“Oh!” She stood up from the piano bench. “I’m sorry, I forgot to silence it.”

Tessa picked up her phone, and all at once her expression flitted from happy to anxious to confused.

“I’m sorry, I have to take this. Do you mind if we take five?”

As the door closed behind her, Magnus cleared his throat. “You know, it’s not uncommon for people in the music industry to date each other. There isn’t, like, a policy against it.”

Jem glanced up distractedly from his computer, not sensing the note of suggestion in Magnus’s tone. “I know. Honestly, I don’t think a policy would stop them.”

“Why do you say that?”

Jem shrugged. “If you love someone, I doubt something as superficial as a company policy would stop you.”

“Cheeky. I didn’t know you had such a rebellious streak.”

“To love is as great a thing as to be loved. The world will always need more of it. Anything that prevents love from flourishing is to be distrusted, to say the least.”

“You sound so sure.”

Jem gave him a lopsided grin. “My parents had a great love. Maybe I’m just a product of old-fashioned romance.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Magnus said, turning back to his computer. “Although old-fashioned doesn’t mean you need to keep following Tessa around with puppy-dog eyes. Like I said, no rule against shooting your shot.”

For a couple seconds--or was it minutes?--Jem sat looking blankly at Magnus’s profile, work forgotten. The chance to respond evaporated as the door opened and Tessa walked in. Jem glanced unseeingly at his computer.

“Am I interrupting something?” Her tone was cheerful, but the way she avoided their eyes seemed like she was preoccupied. Overcompensating.

“Not at all,” said Magnus, “I was just telling Jem that he could ask you--”

“--to go over the ending again, if that’s alright,” Jem finished, hoping that his blush was unnoticeable. “I think the voicing could be better.”

“No problem.” Tessa placed her phone face-down on the table and turned to enter the booth, still avoiding their gazes. “I was thinking the same thing.”

She was an immaculate professional, but Jem was not a music producer without being a good reader of people. There was definitely a change in her demeanor.

One day Jem tried to find out if there was anything to be worried about (aside from the almost certain confirmation that she was taken).

“Is everything alright, Tessa?”

“Yes,” she said, too quickly, and flashed a bright smile at him. “Everything’s fine.”

Jem watched her for a moment, fascinated. One couldn’t quite know what she was thinking sometimes, behind her thoughtful grey eyes and long, feathery lashes. It didn’t stop him from trying to find out, though; in fact, it made his gaze linger upon her face all the more in his efforts to unlock her thoughts.

Noticing his pause, she countered: “Is everything alright, with you?”

“Yes, I’m fine. I was only worried--I couldn’t help but notice that you seem a bit out of sorts lately.”

She turned wide eyes on him. “Why would you say that?”

“The phone calls you receive... the messages... you look worried every time you put your phone down.”

“It’s nothing. Just a bit of family drama.” Before he could respond, she got up and went back into the booth.

Family drama? Was “Nate” her husband? No, she wore nothing on her ring finger (he double-checked just to make sure). So “Nate” was family-family? Jem found it hard to feel relieved; whoever “Nate” was, he was clearly causing her distress.

Jem knew she didn’t mean to be short with him. They had built up a good rapport over the past couple of weeks, never mind the “following her around with puppy-dog eyes.” Tessa was recording ingenious versions of composers that had been interpreted and reinterpreted by masters and young virtuosos throughout recorded performance history. Magnus and Jem had little in the way of advice to give, in that respect. In return, Tessa was as curious as ever, asking Magnus all about his career and Jem about his college experience.

Once she had asked: “Why did you decide to major in music production?”

He had shrugged. “Path of least resistance.” At her surprised look, he laughed. “I’m only joking, though not completely, to be honest.”

“I would never want you to be anything but honest with me.” Jem froze. There was a playful glint in her eye, but she made it sound a bit serious. It was like her face; the grave, elegant shape of it when she was deep in thought--or playing Brahms--sometimes hid the quicksilver sense of humor sparkling in her grey eyes, especially if one didn’t know to look for it.

His heart racing, Jem smiled and looked away. “As you wish. Some musicians shy away from production because it involves too much technology. Takes the focus away from the artistry, they say.” Tessa nodded. “Well, I’ve always liked to fiddle--pun intended”--she laughed at that--“with new technologies. The technicality of production happens to be one of my favorite things about music. The subtle changes you get from using correctors versus trying to get it right live. All the different choices of microphones you can use to record. The spaces you record in. The instruments. And finally, finding the right combination for each unique artist and piece...” He shook his head. “It’s like... a puzzle with no single perfect solution. There’s a good result with most combinations, but you have to find the one that works best for each new recording. That, I think, is the artistry of production.”

When he finished, he looked at her and blushed. The intensity in her eyes scorched him, pinning his gaze in place.

“That’s beautiful,” she breathed. “I never thought of it that way, but the way that you talk about it makes me see--” She broke off. “However we choose to work with music, we can’t go wrong.”

Jem looked at her--the small, thoughtful smile on her lips--in admiration. She was so articulate. She could say so much with so little. Unlike him, who rambled in paragraphs and never quite arrived at his true meaning.

For a wild moment, he had even thought of confessing that the piece of music that came to mind when he thought of her was Debussy’s “Clair de Lune.” In his mind, things were going _that_ well.

But no, Tessa never divulged the cause of her unusual tenseness or the nature of her distressing cellular communications. In fact, in a few days all seemed forgotten.

So much so that Jem decided to take a chance. It was her last day of recording, and Magnus’s words never stopped echoing in his mind. _No rule against shooting your shot._

Magnus had left for the day--not before throwing many significant looks at Jem, who tried to ignore them--and Jem himself was filing the recordings and shutting down the computers. Tessa was gathering her things and coming out of the booth.

_It’s time_ , Jem thought, his hands itching to do something. He tidied up chairs and scores and other things around the studio that didn’t really need tidying. He packed his things slowly, bracing himself--

“Hey, I was wondering--”

“Tessa, would you--?”

They stared at each other, and laughed at the same time. It was Tessa who spoke again first.

“Please, you first.”

“Alright,” he said. He looked at her smiling eyes and told himself it might be the last time he would see them. “Would you like to go out with me sometime?”

She blinked, and her smile faded. _Ah, here it comes_ , he thought. _At least I tried._

“That,” she began, “was exactly what I was going to ask you.”

He gaped at her. “Really?”

Her smile came back, and she was nodding. “Yes, Jem Carstairs, I was going to ask you out on a date. Actually, I was thinking more--drinks, tonight--but if you’re busy, some other time--”

“No,” he blurted. “I--I mean, yes, I would love to buy you a drink. It doesn’t have to be _dinner,_ but...” He trailed off, trying to read her expression. It was amusement, but something else, too.

“You were going to buy me dinner?”

Jem imagined his face was as bright a red as her red leather jacket. “Yes. But if you don’t want--”

“Dinner sounds amazing,” she said. “I would hate to steal your thunder.”

She was smiling at him again, that same smile he imagined was reserved just for him when they first met at Garroway Music. Jem’s heart flipped over in his chest. (At this rate, it would soon be able to compete in Olympic gymnastics.) He was in a state of shock throughout the rest of their conversation; somehow they’d exchanged phone numbers and laughed over the fact that _we both waited till the exact same moment to ask the other out_ , but he couldn’t quite remember the order of it all.

_Yes, miracles_ are _possible_ , he thought as he drove home, perhaps a little too quickly. Against all odds, nerdy, blushy James Carstairs was going on a date with brilliant, beautiful Tessa Gray. Maybe this was another one of the universe’s cosmic jokes, but if so, Jem couldn’t bring himself to care.


	5. Clair de Lune

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the much-awaited date. enjoy x

If there was someone more of a morning person than Jem, he had yet to meet them. As a child, he was _that_ kid. The one clambering up onto his parents’ bed in the morning, giggling at the groggy look on their faces and squealing with delight when they tickled him. Sunlight would pour in when his father opened the curtains. Then they would go and make breakfast together and eat in the music room, where Jem’s mother would invariably scold his father for letting his food grow cold as he played. He’d play “morning music”--Schubert or Mozart--and Jem would sit watching in awe, remembering that his father could also make the violin sound very serious and mournful. How his father could make music sound light as air was a feat Jem could never quite fathom...

Jem blinked away the memory. This morning, he felt heavy. Weighed down, as if barbells were tied to each of his limbs. The grogginess pervaded his very bones. With great effort, he pushed off the covers and sat up, rubbing his eyes. He’d hoped not to miss work today; he and Magnus were almost done recording Lily and Raphael’s duet album, and he almost finished arranging Magnus’s latest practice piece, which he could finish after work tonight...

Tonight he was going out with Tessa Gray.

Jem reached up and felt his forehead; it was warm. He didn’t understand. He’d been eating right, exercising, hydrating, sleeping well. He didn’t recall anyone being sick around him lately, but then again, these kinds of things hit when you least expect them to.

He couldn’t go out and work with a fever. It would only get worse. Maybe he could kick back a few doses of DayQuil and nap and hope he’d be well enough by tonight... But what if he still wasn’t well by then? The last thing he wanted was to give whatever bug he had to Tessa.

Jem sighed and reached for his phone. Now she would think that he was chickening out. He had been looking forward to this date since their last day together at the studio. It took them two weeks of texting back and forth to find a time that worked for them both, and here he was having to take a rain check.

Would it be rude to send just a text? Should he call her? He sighed again. Now he was giving himself a headache.

* * *

Tessa put down her phone with a sigh, trying to suppress her disappointment. She had been looking forward to seeing him again since her last day at the studio.

Poor Jem, she thought, thinking back to his call. He was so penitent, full of heartfelt remorse, that she had no doubt as to his sincerity. She had the sudden urge to swing by his place with some aspirin, honey, and tea, but then remembered that he didn’t specify his symptoms. She didn’t even know where he lived.

She stretched her fingers and turned her attention back to Debussy. She was making her LA debut with the Los Angeles Philharmonic in a few months at the Walt Disney Concert Hall. Nate wouldn’t be home yet, but at least she would be making significant gains with her career. And with an album on the way... Tessa cracked her knuckles and reset her fingers onto the keys.

* * *

Aunt Harriet was supposed to be home by now.

She was meeting a friend for the afternoon, but it was unusual for any of these meetings to go over three hours.

Glancing at the clock, Tessa checked her reflection in the mirror once more. After half an hour of trying on every option that she thought would be suitable, she settled on a dark blue velvet dress that ruched at the waist and flowed to her knees, with a leather blazer on top. She left her hair in loose waves down her back. Jem would be here soon, so she would probably miss her aunt.

In the meantime, she flipped through a few more ads. Tessa wanted to buy a bigger place for her and her aunt. And Nate, until he finds his feet again. If she was lucky, she could find a new place by the time he was released.

The doorbell rang.

Looking to the door, Tessa took a deep breath. Her nerves were fluttering like they would before a performance, those few terrifying moments before taking the stage. The terror would leave her after the first few bars of music, but the nerves would stay, just under the surface, demanding her full attention.

But this isn’t a performance, Tessa thought, walking to the door. Except maybe in the metaphorical sense. She smoothed down her dress that didn’t need smoothing and opened the door.

“Surprise, surprise!”

The woman before her was definitively not Jem. She was about Tessa’s age, and wore thick-framed spectacles over her brown eyes. Her black hair was up in a ponytail.

“Ellen, hi! What...” Tessa stammered. 

The woman beamed at Tessa, then looked her outfit up and down. “Dang, mami, you look hot! Do you have a date tonight? Is that why you look so disappointed to see me?”

Tessa rolled her eyes. “Just--come in.” She closed the door behind her. “Why are you here? Is everything alright?”

“Nuh-uh, you’re not avoiding the question that easily. I’m only here ‘cause I left my goggles here last week.” Ellen stalked past Tessa to the living room and retrieved the aforementioned eyewear from the coffee table. “I need them tonight for this huge case in the Hollywood Hills. Now, back to you. Who is he? Where are you guys going?” She gasped. “Do you need me to be your fake emergency? I’ve always wanted to be someone’s fake emergency!”

Ellen Porter was Tessa’s high school best friend turned forensic scientist with the Santa Monica Police Department. In other words, Tessa could never hide much from her.

Tessa laughed. “Calm down, Ell. He’s from work, and we’re just going to dinner together. He’ll be here any minute!”

Ellen gasped again, letting Tessa walk her back to the front door. “No way, he’s a sexy virtuoso pianist like you? You’d be Santa Monica’s newest power couple. Beyoncé and Jay-Z better watch out.”

Tessa laughed again and opened the door for her friend.

“No, he’s a producer--”

They almost walked into a bouquet of flowers.

Jem stood on the threshold, one hand poised to ring the doorbell, the other clutching a beautiful arrangement of flowers. He froze and looked wide-eyed between an equally frozen Tessa and Ellen.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi,” they replied.

“Is--” He glanced behind him--“Is this a bad time?”

Tessa blinked. “No, no, not at all. Ellen was just leaving, weren’t you, Ellen?”

Her friend looked Jem up and down. “Mm-hmm, don’t mind me. I’ll just be on my way.” She sauntered past him and gave Tessa a thumbs-up over his shoulder.

“Bye,” said Ellen.

“Bye.”

As soon as Ellen was out of sight, Tessa giggled at Jem’s bemused look.

“Before you ask, I didn’t expect her to drop by any more than you did.”

“That’s all right,” he said, smiling. “These are for you.”

“Thank you,” she replied, taking the flowers from him. Tessa buried her nose in the flowers, noting their sweet scent. Then she promptly sneezed.

“Bless you--” Jem frowned. “As if cancelling on you last week wasn’t enough, I seem to have given you allergies as well. I’m sorry.”

“No, please,” Tessa said, laughing, “I’m not allergic. And we both know how these things happen, things come up, we get sick. I get it.”

“Right. Well, I am very sorry about last week.”

“No worries. I’m glad we could finally find a time that worked.”

As Tessa rummaged through the kitchen cupboards for a jar to use for a vase, Jem stepped through the front door, looking about the living room.

“This your piano?”

He walked over and took a seat at the bench, gazing at the scores double-stacked on the shelf next to it.

“Had it ever since I was little,” Tessa said, placing the flowers on the coffee table. “The neighbors have hated us ever since.”

Jem chuckled, still looking at her scores. “They don’t know how lucky they are.”

He’d said it so lightly she almost missed it. Tessa snuck a glance at his profile. He was wearing a blue-gray button-up shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, over black slacks and brown leather boots.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many music books in one place other than in a music store.”

“I’m a professional hoarder when it comes to books. You should see my room. It’s half books.”

Realizing what she’d said, she turned bright red. Jem turned and caught her eye.

“I still wanted to take you out to dinner first, if that’s all right.” There was a twinkle in his eye.

Tessa jumped up. “Yes, shall we?” She grabbed her purse, almost tripping over the rug in her haste.

Jem crossed the room to the front door, holding it open for her. She locked up behind them. As they crossed the street to his car, she turned to him.

“Where are we going?”

He glanced at her sidelong, flashing a quick smile. “You’re about to find out, Tessa Gray.”

* * *

Tessa watched as west L.A. turned into Santa Monica as Jem drove. The sun had just set-- lingering streaks of purple left their impression on the darkening sky. The streets were clear of cars, for once.

“How are you feeling today?”

He glanced at her. “Very well, thank you. It was just a flu. Came out of nowhere.”

She nodded. After a moment: “So what’s with all the secrecy? I don’t like surprises.”

“The secrecy--” he paused for dramatic effect--“is for this.”

They pulled up to a nondescript building on a block within walking distance from Tessa’s favorite gelato place in Santa Monica. That was as far as she recognized it.

“Jem--” she started as he killed the engine-- “you’re supposed to kill me first, _then_ dump my body in a place like this.”

“What?” He threw her a sharp look that soon melted into mock-indignation. “Oh. Why I would never.”

“Of all the things to do on a first date,” he went on, locking the car behind them, “killing your date is the worst way to make a good first impression.”

“Hm. Murder does have a way of sticking in one’s mind.”

Jem laughed as they ambled down the sidewalk. Tessa stopped next to him outside a glossy black iron door. Somewhere in the distance she could hear music from a nearby bar.

Jem knocked five times, in an oddly syncopated rhythm. An eye door slid aside to reveal a pair of dark eyes.

“Jazz baby and greaser teen take on the world,” Jem said.

A gruff voice behind the door said, “With what?”

“A lily pad.”

After a beat, the eye door slipped back in place and the locks were undone. The door swung open and a man in black and gold stepped aside. The sound of the music was louder now.

Jem offered her his arm, and as she took it she noticed the art deco detailing on the inside of the door, and on the walls beyond... the bouncer? Yes, that was the most accurate description she could attribute to the man at the door.

After descending a narrow hallway of stairs, they emerged upon a scene taken straight from _The Great Gatsby_. A jazz band riffed in a corner, and men and women in dazzling 20’s attire danced around them, champagne flutes and whiskey tumblers in hand. Smartly dressed waiters weaved agilely between dancers and women and men smoking at tables. The bars and walls were finished with the same geometric designs from the inside of the front door, and massive chandeliers threw light on every sequin, jewel, and glossed lip in the room. Tables around the open floor plan were laden with more flutes, glasses, and plates of half-eaten and untouched food: Margherita pizza, hors d’oeuvres, French onion soup, cheese platters. Tessa could only stare.

“Tessa.” She blinked when Jem waved a hand in front of her. “You alright? It must have been a minute before I realized I was talking to myself.”

“What is this place?” She couldn’t take her eyes off the jazz band in the corner. “A speakeasy?”

“Yes,” he said, guiding her down the spiral staircase. “Santa Monica’s only speakeasy, if I’m not mistaken. My college roommate first brought me here a couple years ago. Said that this is where he went when he needed to finish a paper for school.”

At Tessa’s puzzled look, Jem added doubtfully: “Something about inspiration at the bottom of a highball?”

Tessa sat down at a table near the band as Jem ordered starters--she couldn’t say what. How did a place like this still exist? She looked around once again. Was it a preserved movie set made into a real bar? It wasn’t like other 1920’s-themed bars, which were classy but insufficiently jazzed. Somehow their gilded wine glasses and geometric wallpaper seemed cheap--artificial--compared to the room she sat in now. Forget “themes”-- this _was_ a 1920’s bar.

Jem was watching her carefully. “Sorry--I should have asked. Are you allergic to anything?”

She looked at him again and almost laughed at the ordinariness of his oxford shirt and slacks. “Except for a violent dislike of chocolate, no.”

“Chocolate?” He grinned. “Well, the chocolate eclairs are all going to be mine, anyway, but now I won’t have to feel any qualms about it.”

“Cheeky.” She returned his grin. “Why didn’t you say to dress up? I have a flapper’s outfit waiting with bated breath for an opportunity to complete another Jordan Baker cosplay.”

Jem’s laugh was full-throated. “I suppose I’ve lost the chance to see that. You did say that _The Great Gatsby_ was your favorite book. But it would have ruined the element of surprise.”

“Next time, perhaps.”

His gaze flitted to hers and away. His lashes fluttered in a familiar expression of shyness. Tessa stared, fascinated.

“Indeed. I didn’t want to presume.”

The evening passed slowly--the band played as Jem and Tessa talked, ate, and laughed through it all. Tessa learned that he was born in Shanghai and moved to London at a young age. His father taught him to play the violin.

“They must be so proud of you,” she said.

“Ah--yes, they are. I know they are.”

Oblivious, she asked, “Do you visit them often?”

The moment his eyes widened, she knew she’d made a mistake.

“They’re... not around anymore,” he said quietly. “They passed on when I was 17.”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed--”

“No, don’t worry about it.” He smiled. “I’m sure I would have made the same mistake if you hadn’t beaten me to it first.”

“No, really. I shouldn’t have. I should know because my parents are gone, too.”

“I’m sorry.”

She shook her head. “I barely remember them. I was young when it happened.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t still miss them.”

“You miss them,” she said softly. It wasn’t a question.

“Every day. But I’m not alone. That college roommate I told you about? He’s a brother to me. He’s the family I found.”

She nodded. “I live with my aunt. And I have a brother. And Ellen, whom you met.”

“Sounds like you’re in good hands, then.” He flashed a grin, which she returned.

For a while they listened as the band finished a sultry number with a guest singer. A round of applause later, the band started to play a familiar tune. It took Tessa a moment to recognize Debussy’s “Clair de Lune” in this jazzed-up arrangement.

She heard Jem cough. “I have a confession to make.”

Tessa looked up in surprise.

“While we’re on the subject of getting to know one another, I thought I should let you in on some of my... more embarrassing tendencies.”

“Oh, now I’m really intrigued.”

He cleared his throat. “I should preface this with some context. Ever since I was a child, I’ve always used music to express what I was feeling. Words were clumsy to me and I was never any good at them. But music--my first impressions of people always evoked a piece of music before any other kind of expression.”

Tessa looked at him expectantly. “Go on.”

Now he looked down at his hands. “Every new person I meet, I associate a piece of music with them. For you...” He trailed off, listening to the jazz band play the part of the song that swelled upward in fantastical swirls of harmony. “It came to me that first time I saw you at Garroway Music. ‘Clair de Lune.’”

The room was loud but she heard him clearly. She studied his face. There was a wistfulness, a light--which she knew had always been there since the first moment they met--but also hope, which was newer.

“I’m waiting for the embarrassing punchline, James. That’s hardly anything to be embarrassed by. It’s sweet. In fact, it’s a gift that you can make such keen musical observations about people based solely on first impressions.”

“Well,” Jem said, smiling wryly, “tell that to Gina from the ninth grade.”

“And what piece did she remind you of?”

“Tchaikovsky. D Major Violin Concerto. First movement.”

“Wow, she must’ve been quite something then, huh?”

“Not really. She was no ‘Clair de Lune.’”

She caught his eye, where she saw a seriousness so deep that her gaze wavered. The band finished the piece to uproarious applause--people stood and clapped, cheering and stomping. Some even threw flowers. Only Jem and Tessa remained seated, rooted in place.

As the band segued into the next song, an old jazz standard, Tessa took a deep breath and broke the spell.

“I have something to confess as well.”

“Oh?” She was relieved that the familiar playful glint had returned to his eye.

“My brother... isn’t exactly the ideal role model. I’ve been snippy the past few weeks in the studio because he’s set to come home soon. From Orange County Correctional Facilities.”

It was a reflex for her to wait for the judgment to dawn on Jem’s face, but it never came.

“Understandable. I imagine mixed emotions are associated with such a revelation.”

She met his magnanimity with a flood. “Yes. Exactly. He’s done some bad things--petty crimes, like theft and burglary--but he’s still my brother. No matter what he did, he was always so supportive of me. I tell myself, he’s just hanging out with the wrong crowd, and they get him in trouble. If I can just keep him away from those people this time around, he can get his life back on track. But no one believes he can change. Is it stupid to think that he can?”

“No,” Jem said, and after a moment: “He may not be right with the law, but he is still your brother. Of course you would feel for him and believe the best in him. He needs the support of those he loves and those who love him. Without it, he may never change.”

Later into the night, they had finished off their pizzas--and Jem a second helping of eclairs--when she stood up, extending a hand. He took it and let her lead him out onto the dance floor.

“Another confession,” he said as he rested a hand on her waist, “I can’t dance.”

She gaped at him. “Oh come on, there’s a dancer in everyone.”

“Nope. Two left feet. Or really, two right feet. I’m a lefty.”

“It’s not as hard as it looks. Move to the rhythm. You’re already halfway there if you’re a musician.”

“Easy for the professional pianist to say,” he mumbled, tensely following her lead.

“And relax,” said Tessa, chuckling, “dancing is supposed to be fun. Forget _how_ it’s done, and just do it.”

Together they twirled in tandem to the music and the dancers around them, Tessa becoming more and more aware of the tautness of his shoulder under her hand, the warmth of his body. Jem seemed concentrated on the task at hand, mirroring her steps. He only stepped on her toes once.

Afterwards they drove to the Pier, where Jem bought them ice cream at a late-night, old-fashioned stall. They walked the length of the boardwalk, transfixed by the lights of the city and the iconic ferris wheel reflected on the calm Pacific.

“You have such a sweet tooth, you know that?”

Jem laughed, wiping the corner of his mouth with a finger. “And I’m a complete mess when it comes to ice cream. Ugh, salted caramel is the death of me.” He spooned more into his mouth.

She giggled. “We must have had three sets of dessert tonight, thanks to you. Not that I’m complaining. Not really.”

“Hey, those chocolate eclairs weren’t gonna eat themselves.”

“Was a second plate really necessary though?”

“Yes. Yes, it really was.”

They finished the ice cream and sat down at the water’s edge, feet dangling over the wood planks. For a while they sat in companionable silence.

“Thank you for telling me about your brother.”

Tessa looked at him, and away.

“It takes great strength to open up about anything that’s perceived as taboo,” he went on. “The fact that you chose to trust me with this information when you didn’t have to is not lost on me.”

She smiled to herself.

“You’re right. I didn’t have to. I wanted to.”

He turned to face her. Their eyes locked, and the same force that planted them in their seats at the speakeasy took hold of them now. She felt without seeing his hand ease over hers where it rested atop the boardwalk. His fingers were warm when she laced them between hers.

When they kissed--she couldn’t say who leaned toward the other first--she tasted the salty sweet caramel on his lips, which were softer than ice cream. Her other hand came up to rest against his cheek, her fingers splayed in his pinfeather-soft hair.

Jem pulled away slowly, eyelids lowered, breathing unsteady.

“I must say that I’m surprised at myself,” he whispered, “for not causing us both to end up in the sea.”

“Pity,” she replied. “I do love swimming.”

For a while he simply looked at her. The twinkle in her eye, the smirk. Finally he smiled.

“Next time, then.”

* * *

 

It was past midnight when Tessa got home. As soon as she stepped through the door, she froze.

A light whiff of cigarette smoke was all the tip-off she needed--neither she nor her aunt smoked. She grabbed an umbrella from the hallway, laying down her purse. She scanned the living room and kitchen, treading softly and avoiding the light switch. What she didn’t expect was that it would switch on of its own volition.

“Surprise, Tessie!”


End file.
